A song, Singer
by Hija del Angel
Summary: Exploring Jair, in a different setting, perhaps. Wishsong. Gypsies. It's an Author's Therapy session. Enter at your own risk.
1. Chapter 1

_He hears the sound of someone speaking in the distance, muffled as through a heavy fog, indistinct. It lulls him further into the sea of warmth he has briefly surfaced from. Waves of sleep crash over him, trying to knock him from the rock of consciousness he clings to, simultaneously threatening, and oh, so tempting. But his stubbornness rears its head, and he remains awake._

_The voice rolls on and on, an incomprehensible continuous cadence, sometimes ringingly denouncing, grand, furious, then quieter, pleading, wheedling, begging. He doesn't like that voice- as golden as warm sunlight, rich as pouring honey, thick, and warm- pleading. He stirs in annoyance, and finds he can't. His limbs are weighed down by some indefinable weight; he cannot even move his littlest finger._

_His brow wrinkles, a thought niggles at him before it is swept away by the ever rising tide of lethargy. The sea overwhelms him, drowning him in the blackness of colors so intense, so intense-_

_And his mind can form nothing more. He slips, and falls, spiraling back into the depths of sleep, chased by tones a bronze bell would make, if it's clapper was made of clear crystal._

* * *

His rise to consciousness is a steady, slow, process, as of waves pushing him with their ebb and flow, depositing him on the beach, only to pull him back under, then to bestow him gently on level ground again, this time a bit more firmly, but in the next moment, playfully yanking him in again.

His thoughts come slow, tentative, like a shying animal, running at any conscious attempt to draw them in. The first to actually reach Will Ohmsford's son is identification: _That was Dreamrose._

He is grateful for the enforced calm of Dreamrose as he slowly, logically concludes; _Kidnapping. _He watches questions drift past him, and makes no effort to answer them, or to gather his thoughts, thoughts that swim past him slowly, so slowly, but just out of reach, and any effort he makes towards them causes ripples that push them further away from him...

He is warm, with a bone deep warmth that makes him wish to stretch out like a large cat and luxuriate. He wishes he could purr, for he would if he could. It is a golden warmth that lights up behind his eyelids in the brightest of red-golds, greens and yellows, passive, and light on him, intangible.

Slowly he uncurls his right hand, and his fingers protest; they are clenched, his arm is on his chest. A thought worries him fleetingly then it is gone, a mere shadow darkening his brow for the tenth of an instant. He feels the prickling of grass, cool green grass, beneath his other hand, and turns it, open palmed, wondering at the tickle of bending blades of grass beneath it, springing up in the wake of his movement, as he passes it over the ground once... twice...

He thinks of opening his eyes, looking around. It is very important to him for an instant. Then it's urgency is drained away, and he almost laughs. After all, why?

Time passes, he does not know how much. It is immaterial to him. He dozes, never truly aware of what happens. At some point, he painstakingly pushes himself onto his side, curling around his right arm, cushioning his head with his left, lowering his cheek onto rough sweet smelling grass. Again memory provokes him, pushing him to remember, but pain stops it, a bone deep ache from within himself that overwhelms him in wave after wave after wave, each pulse leaving him sweating, pale, trembling.

The warmth leaves him, as does the light. He thinks, but his thoughts flee from him. He dreams, but sleep is far. He worries, and knows not why.

Darkness falls, and the images he plays with behind eyelids darken too, falling into a morass of swirling... something. He does not know what it is, and his singer's tongue finds no words for it, but it frightens him. He does not wish to be sucked into it too.

He knows he is sick, and wishes for the cool hands of his mother on his forehead to chase away the nameless, meaningless fears. He wishes for the murmur of his father's deep voice in the next room, the sweet clarity of his sister's songs, the scolding worry of his mother's care. Instinctively he knows he is far from them.

The clarity of his earlier thoughts, elusive as they were, escape him, and he curls tighter, a meaningless effort to shelter from fear, from loneliness.

Then there is heavy warmth above him, a warmth heavier than that of the sun's, and softer. He smells wood smoke, and something else, elusive but familiar, the smell his mother carries, when he hugs her tight, buries his face in her shoulder and stays still for a few minutes, a ritual he has never outgrown. His hand, searching, finds soft cloth, clearly lining for the heavier material over him. He pulls it tighter around himself, uncurling slightly, and falls asleep, unable to help himself.

* * *

The fever he carries is an unfortunate side effect of the drug. It takes him three weeks to recover, weeks he remembers little of, except dark dreams, fighting vertigo at the very fringes of a deep deep fall, fear gripping him when he has nothing to fear, and other memories, of odd calm, the world turning with him at its axis, staring up at a canvas roof, seeing it warp in front of his eyes.

But one thing all the memories have in common is that elusive scent, in the bed he turns on, in the blanket he pulls tighter around him, in the cool water that sometimes bathes his brow, carried by that presence that has just left when he opens his eyes. It calls forth intense loneliness for even in his fevered dreams he knows that nothing else is familiar around him.

That one reminder is just salt on his wounds.

Later he is told that he would call for his family in his sleep. He has nothing to say to that. After all what could he say?

* * *

Then he is better, much better, weak, but coherent, both in thoughts, and in actual ability to speak. It is sudden, a direct fall from the heights of illness on which he has been dancing. He rolls over one night, and sees the stranger by his bedside, a man, his hard face lit dimly by the lantern dangling from the middle pole of the tent in which he has spent most of his last few days.

Thoughts -_ finally_ - click and he knows where he is. Or at least who has him.

"Gypsy." He nods at the man, his flamboyant clothing confirming every little scrap of information that has had Jair telling himself that he is an idiot; the tent, the ever so familiar smell, herbal, he now remembers, dry and green, even the grass and sunlight he remembers waking in. So many clues, that he is only now in enough mental self-possession to put together.

He tells himself he is still too ill to feel curious as to motives. He knows he is lying to himself. His self-esteem falls to new depths. Only one thing holds it together; nothing shows on his face.

The gypsy is startled, he sees, judging not by his expression, but by his eyes, gleaming as they are in the flickering light of the lantern. Jair has the advantage of reading his mother, year in year out. His mother, who always laughs, and is always beautiful, but whose temper always shows in the hard glitter of her eyes, whose weariness is read in the pools they become, wariness in the deepening fine wrinkles by their sides,and her joy in the deep lidded content of her gaze when it rests on her children, her husband.

Jair is a silver tongue, a singer. He sees truly what he sees, and has words for it more often then not. He can speak, and even without layering his voice with... magic, he can describe so, another sees what he talks of. It is the skill he has cultivated, fulfilling his joy in images, his childish love of his Wishsong, in discreet ways, in ways that do not worry his parents.

He looks now at the gypsy and waits. And watches. "Singer." The gypsy's voice is deep, and if Jair's intuition is correct, the man deserves the same title. Perhaps he too sees more clearly than Jair gave him credit for. Jair doesn't actually believe that. He is extraordinarily good at observation, and he knows it. And the knowledge is not pride, but a quiet confidence in hard earned skills. He is no longer a little boy who runs bragging at every stranger.

He says nothing, choosing to let the gypsy carry the conversation. And it is _not_ because he is still feeling the walls of the tent revolve around him slowly. It _isn't. _Jair doesn't believe himself either.

The man clearly expects him to speak. Jair is not willing to indulge him. It is a silent stare off for a while, and Jair traces the man's features with his eyes, a hard chin, bright eyes, cheekbones so reminiscent of both his mother and Brin. And the black hair. Jair inherited his father's, _Shea's_ mop of elven-gold hair. But that is irrelevant. The man looks like kin of his, so very similar in features, the high brow, the clear look in his eyes. Jair knows, truly, that it is entirely coincidental, that all gypsies look very alike, as much intermarriage happens.

It takes a while for the man to realize that Jair truly will not respond. Exasperation flickers through his expression, but he does speak up. "You are Jair Shannara."

"Jair _Ohmsford_." Jair corrects, slightly startled. Few people would call him that. The man looks slightly triumphant, a slight smirk pulling at the corners of his lips before it is suppressed. Oh. So he intended to get a reaction out of Jair. Jair deliberately relaxes further on the bed, settling the heavy blanket closer around himself.

"That's not what we've heard." The gypsy's voice goes sauve, smooth, and Jair hates it suddenly, intensely. "Magic, elf-boy?"

Ah. That relaxes him a little. They were targeting him. This is no gypsy clan with a grudge against his family, or something. He doesn't know how much he was worried about that until the weight is gone.

Then it redoubles as he remembers that Brin's gift is far more potent than his. But they don't know about that. Brin's gift was always better hidden than his. He hopes. He really _really_ hopes.

His voice is steady is he responds, "Magic?" Lilting. Boyish. Startled.

"Magic. Rumors are our stock in trade, lad." He actually smirks this time. "Though people do seem to think it's all gypsy tricks. By the way, how is Eretria doing?"

Jair tells himself not to show anything. He is not sure he succeeds. This gypsy knows his mother...

In the end he doesn't respond. Let the man take from it what he will. There is another long pause, and Jair doesn't care that it is a little uncomfortable; either his head is swimming or the tent's walls are. And he knows what his eyes say. Unfortunately he also knows what his mind says.

After a while the man sighs and stands. He is very tall, looming over Jair's bed like that. He looks down at Jair for a long while then says, "Well, I will leave you to recover. This conversation is not over yet." He whirls on on heel and leaves the tent with what seems to be, to Jair, customary haste. Jair gets no impression that the man is angry.

In the lifting of the tent flap, he sees darkness, night outside. He wishes someone had thought to blow out his lantern, and wonders momentarily why the man had been at his bedside at such an hour.

He is unable to care for long, or replay the conversation in his head, because sleep tugs at him and pulls him under.

* * *

No one is around when he wakes next, and he pulls himself slowly to a sitting position, thinking, wondering, if he dares try to stand. His hands tremble where they lie on the bed's cover, and he quickly folds them on his lap, unwilling to show any weakness in this strange place. The apprehension that he had somehow misplaced for a long time seems to rush over him, and he wonders what the gypsies want.

His magic, of course. But in what capacity? What can they do with the Wishsong, anyway? And how do they intend to make him use it? Why did they kidnap him? What about his family?

He forcibly dismisses his fears. They weaken him, and there is nothing he can do about it. It takes great effort to stand, and his limbs are shaky once he is on his feet. It takes pure force of will to get to the tent flap, and when he does manage it, he is pale, trembling, and clutching the sides of it to keep himself upright.

Outside it is readying for a storm, scuttling grey clouds racing each other across a dark sky. Every once in a while thunder rumbles threateningly. The camp is situated on a rolling slope, with Jair's tent on high ground, affording him a remarkable view. People scurry around below him, all in the same bright gypsy colors that his mother so gladly shed, bright splashes of color on green green fields. They ready caravans for the storm, moving horses into shelter, covering wagons with canvas, taking supplies to high ground. Not one person seems purposeless.

Soon someone spots him and a cry for 'Derk!' goes around the camp. The so called Derk emerges from another tent, and looks around. Someone motions towards Jair, where he is silhouetted against the brighter light of the ever-lit lantern within his tent.

Jair stands there, listening to the growl of thunder, angry, threatening. A whiff of wind carries the smell of rolling freshly damp earth, the quintessential smell of a storm, impending or otherwise, to him, and he raises his head like a wolf hound at the scent.

He watches the gypsy man approach him, and knows it is the stranger who was in his tent last night, or was it last night? He is not sure. It does not matter. It has been long enough for his family to have long since panicked, worried, made plans, inquired around, went out searching, and not long enough – _never _long enough – for them to have given him up for dead.

The man reaches him, looks at him for a long long moment. Long enough to observe the white-knuckled grasp Jair has on the tent flap which is the only thing keeping him upright, and certainly long enough to see the sweat dotting his brow, and the pallor of his appearance.

Jair lifts his chin uncompromisingly and stares back at him. He knows that in the very back of his mind sheer terror lurks. He is determined not to show it, or any weakness that might lead to exposing it.

The gypsy runs his hand through thick black curls, and stifles a sigh. "Come." He says, and offers a courteous helping arm when Jair hesitates.

Jair takes a death grip on his arm, leaning almost his entire weight on the man, truly unable to stand on his own. Emphasized by this forced closeness is the deprecancies in height. Brin is the tall one in their family, and Jair the short one. This man has Brin's height, and is stocky besides, making Jair feel small in comparison, his head only reaching the gypsy - _Derk's_ - chin. But Jair is used to the feeling.

The man leads - carries - Jair down the hill, towards his destination. When Jair stumbles as he does regularly, he solicitously stops. He is regularly called out towards by other people, most taking it as an opportunity to gawk at Jair as well. He calls back cheerfully, never pausing, steering Jair masterfully past them.

He notices when Jair sees their destination, a tent a full fourth again as large as most others around, as Jair tenses, and his already tight grip on the man's arm tightens further. He notices and makes no comment. Jair is grateful for the kindness.

Not grateful enough that he pauses the hum he has been continuously building in his throat, weaving it skillfully into the background noise, swelling when the thunder rumbles, or when someone shouts, dying again when other noise dies.

The wind is picking up, and the rustling that creates forms the perfect backdrop for his hum. It lies dormant for the moment, not actually doing anything, just coiled power lying within his throat, deception in a snake poised to strike. He has lived long enough not to underestimate the power he can weave in his voice.

Derk takes him to the tent flap, where Jair transfers his grip onto the tent fabric once more, pausing for breath, or so it appears. He is clearly not supposed to accompany Jair into the tent, but he lingers for a moment, before patting Jair's shoulder swiftly and saying, "Keep that chin up, lad."

Then he is gone, and Jair feels the loss of the only familiar face in the entire camp.

Then he gathers his courage, builds his song, and enters.

* * *

_2,966 words is the actual text of this thing. This thing is my attempt at something I will completely relax while writing. There will be no pervading atmosphere to be captured. If it has one, it does. If it doesn't, it doesn't. The plot might be completely irrational. I don't think it is now, but it might change. Depending on how frustrated I am._

_See, the fact is, Cross my heart is hard to write. You have no idea. This is therapy. It's very descriptive... at the moment. The next chapter might be complete dialogue. Nothing else. It's also written in present tense. For some reason that heals rough nerve endings for me._

_What I'm really saying is... Don't expect much from this. It might turn into crack at the slightest movement. It will only be continued sporadically. I like the Wishsong. Y'know why? I like describing sound. I'm having psuedo geek moments too. Does the wishsong... create an illusion for listeners? In which case, plugging your ears is a fool proof evasion of it. Is the song a kind of medium through which magic happens? Can you use instruments to the same affect? I'll probably be exploring this. I might just as probably be not._

_I also like Jair. And Garet Jax. Not so much Brin. By the way, Jair is older than in Wishsong. And Wishsong never happened. So this is AU._

_Therapy. I like it, cause for some reason, it's 'mood' is really easy. I've written this over a period of a week, the original starting thingy, having actually been one of the random super descriptive stuff I scribble in school. And I_ **think**_ it hangs together._

_I also wanted to call the chapter: 'In which Jair falls asleep.' Because each segment seemed to end with him turning over and going back to sleep._

_/babbling_

_**Hija**  
_


	2. Chapter 2

Jair refuses to show any weakness to those within the tent. It takes him a long while to muster the strength to let go of the tent flap – such a weak, flimsy support, and _why is he thinking of that? _– and enters the tent it hides.

The first thing he notices is the light, the lantern set on the desk right in front of the tent 'door'. It strikes him as odd, having watched his own lantern revolve, sway, rotate above him, and lose shape and clarity, becoming but pure light as he sank so many times into fevered sleep; hanging from a long piece of twine from the highest pole in the tent he has started to unconsciously think of as his own.

The second thing he notices is the dark. His own tent is well lit, even from that one lantern. This tent - perhaps because of its size? – has only that one pool of light, illuminating the desk, laden as it is with numerous scrolls, and it's occupant, leaning back in that one chair, his hands joined, finger-tip to finger-tip, a steeple, above which he observes Jair. The rest of the tent is in darkness, shadowed and ambiguous.

Jair moves without any visible hesitance to the desk, where no chair awaits him, covering internal dread with calm, cool, as of a silvering lake in moonlight. He stands there, looking steadily at the man across from him, whose features are rendered indistinct, as he leans away from the light, far far back.

He rests trembling hands on the edge of the tabletop, gripping slightly to hide trembling, trusting in the scrolls to keep them from sight. And he waits.

The man only stares for a moment and in that moment Jair thinks suddenly, crazily, what the man before him sees. A young man, pale and scared, playing at adult? Or maybe something less?

He doesn't realize the affect he portrays, the cool unhesitant steps from the entrance, unfaltering, and such a contrast from the sick young man tossing in his bed that the man has seen before. He stands inside the circle of illumination, firelight flickering in his elf-gold hair, casting his sharp face in in strict contrast, emphasizing the faint hollows in his cheeks, the slant in his eyebrows, the high brow.

Jair looks otherworldly, briefly ethereal, entirely elfish for a brief instant, in his element. Then the picture flickers, as he moves, and the man realizes that the boy – really, only a young boy, and what have they sunk to, exploiting _children_ – is trembling.

The man rises, and goes to the tent flap, opening it and calling for someone, Jair is not sure what, or who. After a little while he returns with a chair, and Jair is thankful, very thankful, briefly, before he remembers that this man is likely the one behind his kidnapping.

He breathes in deeply before resuming the hum of song, too low to be heard, weaving it skillfully into the very fabric of the background, so it became a necessary component, and it is unthinkable that it could stop, and not resume. He weaves it around himself, the protection of song, unthinkable, but strong, and he knows it. He also knows its dangers. But he will not think on them now, not when there could be danger threatening his family. _Not now. _He'll pray the price later.

The man resumes his seat behind the table, this time leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table. He is swarthy, dark-skinned and strong looking. His hair would have been gypsy dark, Jair guesses, but it is grayed with age, giving him a dignified look.

It takes a long while. But finally he speaks, startling Jair, his song faltering for the briefest instant, "My name is Lecena, Jair Ohmsford." His voice is smooth, honey smooth, used to the bartering that the gypsies did, though it might be called swindling more often than not. "And you have something we want."

That doesn't startle Jair. He knows it already. Wishsong, of course. Let them take it from him if they can. He doesn't think it is possible.

He hesitates, then asks, "What?" If his voice comes more melodiously, if it is but an extension of song, the man might not notice. He is counting on it, as sound dwindles again, concentrating on banking the magic that wishes to swell along with his voice, chaining it with the words his mother had repeated to him, so many times.

_You are intelligent, talented, just as you are. You have no need of tricks and artifices to advance yourself. Be who and what you can without the song._

Without the song, no. Not anymore. It is his only weapon. But without the magic, for now. _For now. _He shivers, and knows that his kidnapper has caught it.

"Your magic." The man replies, "Your song." He shrugs slightly, "Whatever you may call it."

Jair wonders how to respond for a long long moment – too long, he realizes. The cue has passed. It is not his turn any longer.

The man speaks again. "Let me tell you a story, Scion of Shannara."

* * *

_Do you know who the Gypsies are, child? Do you know where we came from?_

No response, maybe a slight swelling in the low rumble threatening in the boy's throat. That was okay.

_We are… well, you could call us exiles, before the beginning of time. Elves hate us, you know? Men, now they will shelter us for short amounts of time, sometimes, though we tend to repay that with stealing all their valuables and wandering away. It's what we do. It's what we are expected to do. But Elves, they won't let us get near them._

This child was the embodiment of their wishes, their fears. He didn't even know it, and watch him sitting there, sharp-faced, golden, _Elvish._

_I think you know the point I am arriving at._

There, finally, a response. A brief flicker of – _was it fear?_ – passes over those bright eyes, before it is subdued, entirely except for the song which dies a little before growing again, subtle, but _there_ in a way it wouldn't be for anyone but Lecena.

_They exiled us generations ago. Neither of us remembers why. We fled, seeking refuge from further reprisals from the elves. We were afraid. Then. Now, well…_

Lecena pauses, shrugs, watching the watchful child.

_Now we hate them._

Sound dies, it's absence sudden, shocking, fearful. Silence spreads, maybe just within the small circle of flickering lantern light, the dark walls looming invisibly in the surrounding darkness. Lecena leans back in his chair, thoughtfully steepling his fingers, joining the tip of each finger with delicacy, softness.

The stillness is broken by a long drawn out crash-roll of thunder, sudden, startling. The child jumps; Lecena doesn't.

There is only one more thing left to say, and he says it:

_There is a storm coming, Jair Ohmsford, scion of Elves. And we intend to ride it's crest back to glory. And we will harness it by, well…_

He gestures negligently at the child,

_Your power._

The story is over.

* * *

The world wavers around him, he feels terror start overtaking him, sheer, stark terror, an pushes it back into the dark recesses of his mind with pure force of will.

He cannot let these people know of Brin's gift.

He will not.

His own folly has caught up to him, but he will not drag his sister with him if he falls.

He stands forcing every reluctant muscle to react to his will, the interview over and done with. Diziness strikes as soon as he is upright, the tent swaying and darkening before his eyes. His hands tremble; he clenches them so as to not betray it, and turns towards the tent flap.

Three long steps await. The opening beckons seductively, offering freedom from the severe claustrophobia seizing him.

He takes one step, and from then, pure momentum carries through. One more… one more…

Then he is outside, watching as the impending storm finally breaks over his head, the gray clouds darkening the sky, looming over the proceedings, menacingly close.

Rain pours down, sheets of it, visibility suffering immediately.

He has been clutching the tent supports to hold himself upright, and the storm's fury enfolds him, and suddenly he laughs in pure exhilaration, letting go of his support.

He steps into the rain, the cascading droplets hitting his skin with enough force to sting, the rush of the rain drowning out any sound. Buffeting winds push and pull at him, and for a moment he is their equal.

Then strength leaves as quickly as it came, and he falls forward, his knees sinking into the mud, and catches himself with one hand quickly enough to not fall headfirst into it.

He looks up, his vision wavering, narrowing, and sees someone approach.

And he sees rain fall straight at him, from a dark sky, silver droplets, hissing through the air, falling, so many hundred thousands, the vision making him feel insignificant for a moment.

Then, nothing.

* * *

_1538 words. Maybe there should be more._

_Must... get... back... to... work... on... Cross your Heart..._

_Real life too. Way too much procrastination going on here..._

_**Hija.**_


End file.
